A Rural Affair (46 page)

‘Oh, Christ. Thanks, Angie,’ I muttered.

‘He’ll know that’s true, about Angie exaggerating, and you can even say she got it wrong and it couldn’t be further from the
truth – he’ll be so confused he won’t know what to believe. Then see if he sticks around. Personally, I bet he will. I’ll
bet the money’s got nothing to do with it. He’s a nice guy, Poppy. Don’t write him off entirely.’

‘Really?’ I asked anxiously. ‘You really like him, Jennie?’

‘Yes, I do, but it’s what
you
think that matters.’

‘But that’s just it, I don’t know!’ I yelped. ‘Don’t know my own mind any more. Not sure I
have
one as a matter of fact.’

‘Course you do.’ But it wasn’t said with much conviction and I slumped miserably at the table, holding my head theatrically
in my hands. I knew she was being extra punchy because she’d made a fool of herself last night and was roaring back from the
dog house, but still.

‘When’s Leila due?’ I asked, jerking upright, keen to plunge her back into her own domestic crisis.

‘Leila,’ she spat. ‘Who knows. Dogs are supposed to have a fourteen-week gestation period, but since she’s half devil it could
be any time. She’s not fit to be a mother, Poppy. Quite aside from her mental-health issues she’s a serial shagger and that’s
not nice, is it? I’d ask the vet to terminate her but the children would never forgive me. And anyway, how d’you stop a She-Devil
whelping? She’d find a way to squeeze them out, just to spite me.’

I grinned. Jennie huffed and puffed a lot of hot air, but I knew very well that cometh the hour, cometh the midwife. She’d
be up all night, installed in Leila’s whelping box, coaxing her along, holding her paw during contractions, and then be besotted
by the litter; never leaving the house, so busy would she be mashing Weetabix and scrambling eggs. In fact there was every
possibility she’d keep the lot. A rather satisfactory vision of eight, fully grown Leilas on the end of eight leads, propelling
Jennie at speed through the village, sprang to mind.

‘You know, it might be the making of her,’ I mused.

‘Leila? I doubt it. She’ll probably give birth in a nasty wet bush and be off in moments, sniffing for trouser again. Looking
for another Peddler to do some brisk fornicating with. Wasn’t that the name of the dog?’

‘Peddler? Oh God, of course. Mark said she’d been seen with him. They might be Peddler’s puppies! Oh, Jennie, I’d really like
one if they are.’

‘Would you?’ She looked surprised. Then she brightened. ‘Okeydoke. But there might be some demand, you know.’ She squared
her shoulders. ‘Despite my own misgivings, Leila is well liked around here. Might be expensive too. But I’ll put you on my
list.’

Typical. Really typical. She was back in control again. Imagining herself saying, ‘No, Mrs Fish, I’m not convinced your garden
is big enough.’

‘She’s definitely pregnant, is she?’ I warned. ‘That test might not be accurate on a dog.’

‘My thoughts entirely so I rang the vet. He said it’ll be pretty conclusive, the hormones are much the same. And as Dan tastefully
pointed out, she’s dugging up a treat.’

‘Right. Bugger. Why isn’t it starting?’ I gazed at my unlit washing machine.

‘Because you’ve put too much in.’

Annoyingly I knew she was right and I stalked to open it and pull out a sheet. It had got caught somehow and I tugged at the
clod of linen but it was stuck fast, so that when I pulled really hard, the whole contents of the drum came out in rush, which
had me falling on my bottom. At which point the doorbell went.

‘D’you want me to get that?’

‘Please.’

‘And then I’m going to have her spayed,’ Jennie told me decisively as she marched to the front door. ‘That’ll take the wind
out of her sails.’

‘They get fat and bad-tempered,’ I warned.

‘Who doesn’t?’ she snorted. ‘Spayed or not.’

I separated a double duvet cover from the herd and stuffed the rest back in, resetting the dial. Away it went.

‘Thank you,’ I heard Jennie say to someone at the door. She came back down the hall. ‘Hey, look at this.’

I turned to see her bearing a bunch of white roses with pretty blue cornflowers tucked in between. She handed them to me.
‘For you, apparently.’

Astonished, I took the paper-wrapped bouquet. Then sat
down and opened the note. It was a long time since anyone had sent me flowers. In fact … no. No one at all.

‘They’re from Luke,’ I said slowly, reading. ‘Hope you’re feeling better, lots of love.’

Jennie peered over my shoulder. ‘Oh, what a
shitty
thing to do,’ she said vehemently. ‘Gets stood up at a moment’s notice and then sends flowers. I ask you.’ She folded her
arms.

After a moment I glanced up guiltily. ‘I’ve misjudged him, haven’t I?’

She shrugged. ‘I dunno. It depends on who you last spoke to.’

It was supposed to be a joke but it was a bit sharp and she knew it.

‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘Didn’t mean that. Tell me to mind my own business, Poppy. It’s just … I really want some happiness
for you.’ She swooped to give me a quick hug. ‘And thanks for everything yesterday,’ she said gruffly in my ear. ‘I couldn’t
do without you, you know.’

I nodded dumbly; touched. But no wiser. As she went to the back door she turned.

‘Oh, you’ll never guess what Angie told me.’

‘What?’

‘About your solicitor chappie, Sam Hetherington. The one in the splendid red hunting coat.’

I felt my heart thump. I already knew.

‘He was once married to Hope Armitage. Years ago, apparently, but still.’

‘Really?’

‘I know, can you believe it? Why on earth did they come here in the first place, one wonders. If he was living here?’

‘Sam wasn’t here when they came,’ I said mechanically. ‘He was still in London. The Hall was rented then. Had tenants.’

‘Yes, but you don’t relocate with your new husband to your ex’s patch unless there’s some pull in that direction, surely?
Why are you looking so stricken, Poppy? And when are you ever going to oil this door?’ She was struggling with my back-door
latch, as everyone did.

‘Hang on,’ I said suddenly. I got up quickly and went to the dresser. Plucking the invitation, I put it in her hand. All at
once everything was as clear as day. I definitely wasn’t going now. ‘Mark at the kennels sent me this. Why don’t you and Dan
go? Half the county’s going, you’ll have fun.’

She looked at it doubtfully. ‘Are you sure? Don’t you want to go? Couldn’t you ask Luke?’

‘I could, and I was going to, actually. I just think that’s possibly not the right venue. I won’t write him off,’ I promised
quickly, ‘but I don’t think I want to go public, as it were.’

‘OK,’ she said slowly, understanding. She nodded. Then her eyes came up from the invitation. They sparkled. ‘Well, if you’re
sure … we’d love to. D’you know, this is just what Dan and I need. A bloody good knees-up. Thank you.’ She smacked the card
into the palm of her hand and went off beaming, giving the back-door latch a monumental twist; never giving it a second chance.

Archie was gurgling on the baby alarm and I slowly climbed the stairs to get him, dragging my hand along the polished rail.
As I came down with him in my arms, he flicked my lower lip, which ordinarily would make me smile. Odd, then, that I couldn’t
raise one for him.

When I’d settled Archie with juice and a biscuit, I arranged the flowers and sat looking at them. Clemmie wandered through
from the sitting room where she’d been involved with her Sylvanian Family dolls all the time Jennie had been here. She could
play quietly with her toys for hours, something which hitherto had been a great source of pride but, more latterly, bothered
me slightly. Clutching the tiny parents in her hands, she gazed at the flowers in wonder.

‘Did they grow in the garden?’

‘No, darling,’ I laughed as she clambered onto my lap and reached out to touch. ‘Someone sent them.’

‘Why?’

I hesitated. ‘As a present.’

‘Who?’

I took a breath. ‘D’you remember that man who came to the pub with us? Luke? He sent them.’

‘The one who could make an eyebrow wiggle?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Is it your birthday?’

‘No, he just sent them.’

‘There’s a card.’ She seized it. Stared. ‘It … oh. What does it say?’

I swallowed, wishing I’d thought this through a bit. ‘It says, “Hope you’re feeling better, lots of love.” I … had a bit of
a cold.’

‘When?’ She twisted on my lap. Brown eyes huge. I flushed.

‘Um, a few days ago.’

‘Oh.’

As she gazed at me the whole chasm between childhood, and her being grown up one day, seemed to yawn at me. A time when her
own innocent little world of Sylvanian Families and truth would be over. When she’d be quicker at spotting lies like the one
I’d just told her. Oh, I told her plenty: put your coat on, it’s cold out there – it wasn’t, but it might be later; teddy
wants you to eat your carrots – who was I to know the workings of a stuffed bear’s mind? We definitely started them early,
the small white ones. Introduced them gradually, like solid food. But this was a proper one. I wondered if she’d spot it.
How grown-up was she? Was I training her well? But a few days ago was an eternity for a four-year-old.

‘Are you going to marry him?’

No flies on Clemmie. Forget the cold, spurious or not; cut to the chase. After a sharp intake of breath, I laughed nervously.

‘No, of course not!’

‘Oh.’ Her gaze went back to the flowers. ‘Becky’s mummy got married and she woz a bridesmaid.’

My heart gave a jolt. ‘Did Becky like that?’

‘Yes, she had a pink dress and a bogey.’

‘A bouquet.’

‘Yes.’

‘And does Becky like her new daddy?’

She shrugged, bored with the finer nuances of her story. ‘We saw pictures at Circle Time. It was long, like a princess dress.’

‘Ah. Lovely.’

‘Can I have one like that?’

‘Well, darling, I’m not sure I’m going to get married. That would mean you would have a new daddy, you see.’

‘We could ask him?’

‘Um, well, no.’ I scratched my neck. ‘I don’t think we’ll do that.’

‘If you do, can I have the dress?’ She slid off my knee, uninterested now that there seemed only a slim chance of sartorial
splendour amongst her classmates.

‘Clemmie, do you ever think about Daddy?’

The health visitor had said I should ask things like this. I didn’t. Ever. It wasn’t my instinct. My instinct screamed: protect!
Don’t mention it! So I hadn’t. Clemmie was on the floor with her tiny parents. The irony didn’t escape me.

‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. Carefully, almost. Too careful, for a four-year-old.

‘Do you remember what he looked like?’

‘He was a bit grumpy,’ she said eventually. To the floor.

And Phil was; had been. Had increasingly regarded the children as an irritant, particularly when he was trying to work. But
I didn’t like the way she’d had to search her memory bank to come up with even
this
picture. Then again, I hadn’t provided her with one.

Clemmie sat back on her heels and looked triumphant. ‘And he had a pink shirt.’

I smiled. ‘He did, didn’t he, Clem.’

Later, when she was watching CBeebies with Archie after lunch, I went through the drawers in the bureau. Eventually I found
what I was looking for, but it had been a search; I’d hidden them well. I found a couple of frames and popped one in each
of their bedrooms. Photos of Phil, smiling. Yes, of course he smiled occasionally. Archie’s was taken on holiday in Majorca,
and Clemmie’s on our wedding day. He may
not have been perfect, but he was their father and you only get one. Clemmie could only remember him grumpy, but that would
surely fade, and then she’d have this smiley photo to take its place. I didn’t put them in obvious positions, by their beds
or on their walls, but on top of their chests of drawers, so that they’d come across them later, by accident maybe, when they
were a bit older, then assume they’d always been there. I didn’t want Clemmie remembering a cross father. I wanted her life
to be perfect, to the extent that I would erase those memories and replace them with nice ones, just as I took her dirty clothes
and replaced them with clean ones. And I’d talk about him more, I determined, as I went downstairs. Remember happy times;
make them up. Lovely picnics, bluebell walks. I could do that for them, my children. Lie. Let’s face it, I did it already.
As I filled the dishwasher I wondered if he could become a bit of a hero, secretly in the SAS, trouble-shooting in Afghanistan,
which would explain why he hadn’t been here much? But then one day, when she was a famous actress and on
Who Do You Think You Are
, she might discover he’d been a cycling nerd with a mistress in the next village. Perhaps not. Stick to the smiling photos
and the bluebell woods.

So that was her memory sorted out. But what about her life? What about replacing Phil with something better, so that, blink,
and she and Archie wouldn’t know any different? They were so young, any stepfather would soon be like a real father. Like
Becky. She called her new daddy Papa. He was a farmer, and Linda, her mum, had never been happier. I knew Linda. Knew the
family Clemmie had been talking about. Linda wasn’t automatically my type at the school gates – bottle blonde, very short
skirts, chewed gum constantly – but I liked her. Her husband had walked out on her one Easter
Sunday and taken up with a younger model. He’d bought a motorbike too; leathers, the whole bit. Two months later he’d been
killed on the A41 when his bike hit black ice. Linda now lived on a dairy farm with her little girl, Becky, and Becky’s papa.
The manic gum-chewing had stopped, I noticed. Jeans instead of micro minis. Hair slightly darker. Because perhaps Becky’s
papa didn’t need the peroxide? Happy endings. Don’t knock them. And don’t pass them up, either.

The rest of the week was taken up with calming my best friend’s sartorial nerves. As Jennie frenziedly pointed out, she hadn’t
been to a ball for years, had nothing to wear and anyway, what
did
one wear to balls these days? Was it long and slinky, or short and cocktaily? These, and other such burning issues, mostly
to do with shoes and accessories, consumed us. For just as I couldn’t think for myself, Jennie couldn’t dress herself – something
I found as easy as falling off a confidence log. Her lack of taste baffled me.